The old man wasn't completely wrong, I found a priory or, to be more exact, the remnants of it. And then I understood, the Soviet power decided to do what Tsars' village policemen couldn't or didn't really want. As a result saving a pile of very thick logs, a stricken down stockade and broken eight-pointed crosses on the graves nothing remained of the priory. Everything was already overgrown with fir wood. To go on is sure death. To go back? I won't get out, today I have nibbled up my last dried potato. Only a turnip left for more than a hundred miles... To try and go south or south-east?
[It's hard to tell how many days I stubbornly plodded south. But the night came when desperation sneaked into the soul and the strength ran short...]